POV: Chase
I see Scott the moment I step into the hallway.
It’s like my body reacts before my brain does—chest locking, breath stalling, a sharp heat flooding my arms. The noise around me fades, replaced by a low ringing in my ears. Students move past us, laughing, talking, living, but all I can see is him.
Scott.
Leaning against the lockers like he owns the place. Same crooked smile. Same careless posture. Older now, broader in the shoulders, but his eyes are exactly the same. Sharp. Knowing. Like he’s already peeled me open and decided what’s inside.
I stop walking.
My hands curl into fists without me telling them to.
Not now, I tell myself. Just keep moving.
But Scott’s gaze locks onto mine, and the smile widens.
“Well, fuck,” he says loudly. “If it isn’t Donovan.”
The name hits like a punch.
A couple of students glance over. I feel their eyes flick to us, curious. I hate that. I hate being seen like this—frozen, exposed, weak.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Scott continues, pushing off the lockers and strolling closer. “College, huh? Guess miracles do happen.”
“Leave me alone,” I mutter.
He laughs. “Still polite. Eli used to hate that about you.”
The world tilts.
My vision narrows, like I’m looking through a tunnel. Eli’s name slams into me, raw and violent, ripping something loose in my chest.
“Don’t,” I say, louder now.
Scott tilts his head. “Don’t what? Say his name? He was my friend too.”
“You don’t get to say his name,” I snap.
“Oh?” He steps closer. “Funny. Considering you walked away and he didn’t.”
Something inside me fractures.
The hallway feels too small, the air too thick. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might burst through my ribs. I smell the faint scent of disinfectant from the floors and suddenly I’m not here anymore.
I’m back in that place.
Concrete walls. Metal beds. The sound of shouting down the hall at night. Eli laughing too loud to cover how scared he was. Eli telling me it would be fine. Eli trusting me.
You should’ve stayed.
Scott’s voice drags me back. “Must be weird,” he says casually, “getting a second chance when your brother didn’t.”
I shove him.
Hard.
He stumbles back into the lockers, metal clanging loudly. Someone gasps. Someone else yells, “Hey!”
Scott straightens slowly, surprise flickering across his face before twisting into something darker.
“Touchy,” he says. “Guess guilt never really goes away, huh?”
I don’t remember deciding to hit him.
I just do.
My fist connects with his jaw, the impact jarring up my arm. He swings back, catching me in the shoulder. We crash into the lockers again, bodies colliding, fists flying. The sound is chaotic—metal, shouting, the thud of blows landing.
I hear my name being shouted. I don’t know by who.
All I know is that I can’t stop.
Every hit feels like I’m trying to punch the past out of existence. Like if I hit hard enough, fast enough, I can erase the image of Eli’s face, the look in his eyes the last time I saw him.
You left.
Scott shoves me again, slamming me into the wall. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls. “College boy. Clean record. New girlfriend.”
The word girlfriend twists something ugly in my gut.
“You don’t deserve it,” he continues. “You didn’t deserve to walk out of there.”
That’s when I really lose it.
I tackle him, driving him to the floor. Someone screams. Hands grab at my arms, trying to pull me off, but I thrash against them, blind with rage.
“Chase! Stop!” a voice yells.
Security. Faculty. Too late.
I’m hauled back, chest heaving, knuckles throbbing. Scott is pulled to his feet, blood at the corner of his mouth, eyes burning with triumph.
“Worth it,” he says softly, just for me.
They separate us, dragging me down the hallway toward an office. My adrenaline crashes hard, leaving me shaky and hollow. My hands are still clenched, nails digging into my palms.
I can already see it unfolding.
The report. The disciplinary hearing. The words prior incidents being said with tight mouths and disapproving looks. I can feel the ground crumbling beneath me, piece by piece.
They sit me in a cold office chair under harsh lighting. A dean I barely recognize stands across from me, arms folded.
“What happened?” he asks.
I laugh, short and bitter. “You tell me.”
His expression tightens. “You were involved in a physical altercation on campus grounds.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I noticed.”
“Given your history,” he continues, “this is extremely serious.”
History.
That word follows me everywhere.
I think of Zoey. Of the way she looked at me last night—tired, distant, like she was already half gone. I think of how many times she’s stood between me and consequences, smoothing things over, explaining me to people who don’t care.
I feel sick.
“I didn’t start it,” I say finally.
The dean exhales. “We have witnesses who say otherwise.”
“Of course you do,” I mutter.
Another administrator enters the room, whispering something to the dean. I catch fragments—probation, previous warning, expulsion review.
My chest tightens.
Expulsion.
The word echoes in my head, heavy and final. No degree. No future. Just confirmation of what Scott said—proof that I peaked and fell and never got back up.
They talk at me for a while, outlining procedures, next steps, consequences. I nod mechanically, my mind miles away. I don’t hear most of it.
All I can think about is Eli.
About how he never got out. How I did. How every step forward feels like theft.
When they finally let me go, I stumble outside, the cold air slapping me awake. My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Zoey.
I stare at her name on the screen, my throat tight.
I don’t answer.
What would I even say?
I almost got expelled because I can’t outrun my past?
I hit someone because I hate myself?
I’m drowning and I don’t know how to stop?
I shove the phone back into my pocket and start walking, fast, my boots scuffing against the pavement. My thoughts spiral, dark and relentless.
Scott’s words replay over and over.
You walked away.